Lady Voldemorte
by Silver Rose Perish
Summary: 11-year-old Lady Voldemorte Riddle can't figure out why everyone hates her in this newly discovered wizarding world, and the only one willing to tell her anything is a rat-man who tells the most repulsive stories. **This is a Voldemort's-got-a-kid fic. Implied Bellamort. Get ready for lots of Wormtail hating and lots of Parseltongue. Set in PoA. Read and review.**


A/N: Hey everyone!

Originally, I was just going to let this fic rot on my drive, because it's a Voldemort's-got-a-daughter story, and a lot of those that I've read have been good, but... I don't know. They just didn't sell me on the idea, you know?

But my friend and I are having opposite summers—mine's really busy, hers isn't—so I've been sending her chapters of this to keep her entertained. She likes it, so maybe you will, too.

I do not own Harry Potter, its places, its characters, etc. I do, however, own Adelaide. Adelaide has always been, and always will be, my favorite OC. So, please, be gentle with her.

Read on now. Reviews are much appreciated, and chances are, if there is no interest expressed, this weird story will just rot in the corners of this website.

And now, for this first chapter, let me take you back to the night that started it all...

CHAPTER ONE

He found that his mind was an empty corridor. It was a sunlit, high-ceilinged corridor, of the kind he had only seen on his glory days at school. It was the sort of corridor where shadows went to die, for the golden haze of afternoon touched even the darkest corners and laid them bare.

Peter Pettigrew wanted to nurse his empty corridor mind, but he didn't have the time. There was something he had to do. There was something he had to take.

The house was in shambles. That must be the roof, he thought, that thing that might have been falling in on itself. He dragged one shaking limb at a time up the front walk. Was it smoldering? He couldn't see straight... He couldn't...

It crossed Peter's mind that maybe his Lord had been a bit more ruthless than usual. To be fair, though, he'd been a bit more difficult than usual, but he would have given up under less torment than Voldemort gave him, surely. He wasn't that devoted. It had something to do with James James and Lily and their son, Harry. It had everything to do with Harry, he thought, but he couldn't quite... It hurt too much to...

Orange heads filled with fire lined the streets, Peter had noticed as he went quickly to the house. There was a reason for that. It was Halloween, 31 October, he supposed.

Children liked Halloween, and when Peter was younger, he'd been no exception. James and Sirius liked to play the cruellest, but also the funniest, practical jokes on Halloween. Remus would spend half the night trying to talk them out of such things, of course that was just who he was but in the end, he always gave in. He always laughed with the rest at the end of the night when Dumbledore's hat was perched atop the astronomy tower and James was hiding a coil of rope beneath his cloak.

Where did Peter fit into this? He'd wondered even then. Their Animagi forms seemed to show everything, lay it all out in simple terms that even he could understand. Remus was the wolf, but only because he couldn't help it; he was the catalyst Peter thought in his more intelligent moments the catalyst to everything. James was a stag: he charged ahead; he led the way. Sirius was the dog: he was loyal; he was brave; he was a lot less fearsome than he appeared.

And Peter? Why, Peter Pettigrew was the rat. He wasn't large, but he could fit into small places. He wasn't brave, but he was inconspicuous. He certainly wasn't beautiful, but he would survive. He was... What was that word? Resilient. Peter supposed that was the right word.

He stepped up to the entrance of the house. The door was blasted off its hinges, and the entry-way was a black maw through which poor Peter Pettigrew had to scurry. He didn't trust it, and he wanted to be closer to the ground, to explore this place with his enhanced senses. He wished he could transform, but he didn't have the energy. He had nearly enough to get away from here when this was done... Though for a moment he couldn't quite remember why he was here in the first place. Something he had to get...

It crossed his mind that his Lord had been more liberal tonight. The Cruciatus Curse was scrambling his thoughts. That was not unheard of; cases of documented insanity caused by the curse had been around almost as long as the curse itself. Sometimes, it was temporary, and left you in a few hours with a headache reminiscent of a hangover. Peter hoped this was one of those times, as he didn't fancy a place at St. Mungo's.

The living room was wrecked. A rickety table had imploded, and lay on the floor in a little pile of matchwood. Blue flames danced in the upholstery of the sofa in the corner. The body in the center of the room, where all the furniture had been cleared away, was unrecognizable. It wasn't just a Killing Curse that had got him; there had been a struggle, certainly.

Peter crept through the kitchen, which was dark, and carpetted in a fine layer of broken glass. The dishes must have rattled during the duel and then shattered as the explosions grew in intensity.

The house was eerily silent, and Peter felt the miniscule hairs along his spine rise.

The fourth stair from the bottom squeaked, and with every step across the landing, the boards gave slightly.

CREEK.

CREEK.

CREEK...

The onomatopoeia thrummed through his mind, as though he were listening to a motion picture of this experience. He was detached from it that was right just listening to the sound effects of a creaky floor, not walking across it.

The light was on in what must have been a child's bedroom. Harry's bedroom. This was Harry Potter's bedroom.

Stuffed toys littered the hardwood floor. What might have been a child's broomstick hovered in the corner, waiting for its rider. Another corner of the room wouldn't support Peter's weight; the floor there was black with rot. There was a large scorch mark above the crib. An armoire sat against one wall.

The body downstairs had not been recognizable, but this one was. She'd fallen backwards, so that she was draped over the wooden bars of the crib where her son slept. Her head lolled back, almost atop the little boy. In fact, her long red hair did pile atop him, and tickled his face with every deep breath he took. Her mouth hung open in a silent scream, and those green eyes the emerald eyes about which Snivellus Snape had once written a poem were as wide as tea saucers and bulging slightly from her marble face. Her name was Lily Potter.

And suddenly, Peter Pettigrew found that his mind was startlingly, gruesomely clear. It was no longer a vacant afternoon corridor. It was a gallery in evening, where every detail every flaw was brought out in bas-relief by the simple color scheme, and the backdrop of the setting sun lit all.

Lily and James were... They'd been young and full of life and his best friends for God's sake and now they were... And he'd just given them up. He'd let the Cruciatus Curse break him, and now they were... But somehow, Harry had survived. At least there was that.

He couldn't fail his Lord though, not like he'd failed his best friends.

Of course it had been Voldemort's idea to succeed. It had been the self-proclaimed Dark Lord's idea to prosper, but of course he was ready for failure. "One who knows anything knows that one must always have a plan and a backup plan, two lessons Peter susspected the Dark Lord learned early on.

In the event of failure, Peter Pettigrew was to collect the Dark Lord's wand, and take it away. The Dark Lord would return if he was in any way able and he would need a wand. He would need his wand.

Peter knelt and began to search, wattery eyes moving over the things strewn about the floor.

It had rolled beneath the armoire, and Peter lay on his stomach, working a hand beneath the old monstrosity to get at it. The wand was cool beneath his fingers, and covered in a fiine layer of dust.

From downstairs, Peter heard the unmistakable sounds of sniffling and of footsteps on floorboards.

He wrapped the Dark Lord's wand in his cloak, then gathered himself mentally and physically. He tucked his elbows in, and felt the muscles in his shoulders tense.

"Please, don't let me splinch." He whispered, and turned on the spot.

As he Disapparated, cloak-wrapped wand clutched tightly in his left hand, Peter thought that it was for the best that he didn't stop and take a closer look at James. It would send him into hysterics, and right now, he had to focus on getting Voldemort's wand out of here. It was a mercy that he was still quite befuddled by the torture, then, to realize who he'd walked past with barely a glance. He reflected that it might have been the only mercy Lord Voldemort had ever shown anyone.

He couldn't run back to the safety and security that the Order had brought. He'd betrayed the Potters. He was on his own now, with a wand that radiated hate, and his only hope for any kind of protection came from a man whose only act of mercy was torturing someone to the point of delirium. Peter Pettigrew thought maybe he wanted to cry.


End file.
